Lindsay Buroker - The assassin curse

“I appreciate the help,” she said quietly.

“I can’t stay here,” Sicarius whispered. “He’s too strong.”

The hairs stirred on Amaranthe’s neck again. “Who is?”

“Azon Amar.”

“The dead assassin.” Amaranthe did not know what else to say. She didn’t even know what he was saying.

“The dead warrior mage,” Sicarius said. “He was powerful in life, and some of that power lingers in death. His spirit is here, restless and angry.”

Amaranthe stared at him. That a dead Nurian was somehow reaching out from the afterlife to affect Sicarius seemed impossible. Though there were countless stories involving ancestor spirits in the empire, she’d never seen anything to prove that they truly existed. Of course, a year earlier, she hadn’t believed magic existed either, but she’d seen ample examples of the mental sciences in recent months.

“What does he want?” Amaranthe asked.

“For me to kill you.”

“Me?” she squeaked. She cleared her throat, fighting for a calm voice, but she was all too conscious of the fact that Sicarius still gripped her arms, and he continued to breathe hard, as if he was fighting against something. Something that was trying to compel him. “Why me? I’ve never even met-”

“You’re Turgonian.”

“So are you.”

“Yes,” Sicarius said, “and he already tried to get me to commit suicide.”

Amaranthe swallowed. When had that happened? When Sicarius was up ahead? Or back on the beach when they first came ashore?

“But you resisted,” she said.

“Yes.”

With more confidence than she felt, Amaranthe patted him on the side and said, “You’ll resist killing me too.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and, through his grip, Amaranthe could almost sense the loathing of the dead sorcerer.

Then Sicarius released her. “Yes.”

The strain in his voice when he said that, as if he were speaking through clenched teeth, worried her. Everything here worried her, and she wondered if this good deed was worth it. She also regretted wishing Sicarius was less infallible. Resist, she silently urged him.

“You should leave the island,” Amaranthe said. “Get out of his range of power.”

“I won’t leave you here alone.”

“I can handle a couple of thieves on my own.” Or so she hoped. If the Nurians had sneaked into a heavily guarded army fort and stolen all that equipment, they certainly weren’t neophytes. Amaranthe shifted, and her ankle twinged. She couldn’t forget the roots, branches, and falling trees that seemed to want her dead too.

“You’ll have to,” Sicarius said. “I already tried to kill them, and he stopped me. He’s protecting his countrymen.”

“Why’s he only attempting to manipulate you and not me?” she asked. As far as she knew, no spirit was marauding through her head, trying to convince her to kill herself.

“Perhaps he can only control one person at a time.”

Sicarius left her side to jump on the back of the machine crumpled against the boulder. He yanked his dagger free with a grinding of metal. Amaranthe had seen his black blade in action numerous times, and it did not surprise her that it could pierce metal-it probably wouldn’t even be scratched.

Amaranthe picked up her crossbow and examined it, careful not to brush against the poisoned quarrel. “Why would he choose you over me? I haven’t had any training to resist magic, so I’d be easier to control.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized it might not be a good idea to announce such things to the malevolent island. “No, he must realize you’re the better tool.”

She dropped the crossbow. The firing mechanism was broken.

“Do you have any poison left?” Sicarius returned to her side. An owl hooted nearby.

“Yes,” Amaranthe said.

Sicarius pressed something cool into her palm-the handle of his dagger. She stared at the dark blade.

“Apply poison to the tip,” he said. “If I… bother you, use it.”

“Sicarius, this is ridiculous. Just swim back to shore.”

“I’m not sure he’ll let me,” he said softly.

“Try. You’re not getting yourself killed out here, and you’re certainly not killing me. I’ll just go take a look and see if there’s a way to talk these people out of leaving their ill-gotten plunder behind, and then I’ll meet you back at that dock.”

“Amaranthe…”

She planted her free hand on his chest. “Go, I’ll be fine without you. Trust me, you’re the biggest threat to me on this island.”

“Understood.” He turned his back and strode away, disappearing into the night.

After a moment of consideration, Amaranthe pulled her vial of poison from her ammo pouch and, by the light of the burning wreckage, brushed some of the clear liquid onto Sicarius’s blade. There was no way she would use it on him, but maybe it would come in handy against the thieves.

With his dagger in hand, she picked her way back to the path, but she stopped there. There was no campfire to check. She and Sicarius had smelled the wood burning in the machines’ furnaces. The thieves could be anywhere on the island. Or — her head jerked up-maybe they’d used the machines to distract her while they gathered their gear and prepared to leave the island. Maybe they were circling back to the boat to escape.

An owl hooted above Amaranthe’s head.

She jumped, then rolled her eyes at herself. This place had her on edge.

“A good reason to finish up and get off it,” she told herself.

Amaranthe hustled back down the trail toward the beach. This time, she worried more about speed and less about stealth.

As she was clambering over the fallen log, the first human sound came to her ear. Voices.

She could not understand what they were saying, but their voices were underlaid by urgency.

Amaranthe ran down the final fifty meters of trail as quickly as she could without making too much noise. When she reached the pebbles, she spotted the thieves. Too late.

They had already launched the boat and were paddling out so they could swing around the island’s contours and head for the river. Both were rowing with a huge bulky pile between them, its contents shrouded with a tarp.

Amaranthe clenched her fist. If she hadn’t broken her crossbow, she might have shot them. She could swim out to them, but they’d see her coming and simply shoot her with those prototype weapons. Even if she managed to hold her breath long enough to swim under water to their position, what then? Would she slither over the edge of the boat and try to cut their throats before they noticed her? Sicarius could manage that, but she had no idea as to the thieves’ degree of combat prowess. She was not sure she could assassinate someone in cold blood anyway, even someone stealing imperial secrets.

She couldn’t give up yet though. Amaranthe ran along the beach, hugging the shadows of the tree line for camouflage. Pebbles shifted beneath her feet, and she hoped the lapping waves hid the noise.

An owl hooted from a nearby tree, not a single call, but a string of insistent hoots. Amaranthe halted midstep. The thieves lowered their voices and looked in her direction. They shouldn’t be able to see her against the dark backdrop of the trees, but having their eyes turned toward her made her nervous. That owl couldn’t be calling attention to her on purpose, could it?

It hooted again from a closer perch. Amaranthe grabbed a pebble from the beach and flung it toward the noise. She didn’t expect to hit anything, but maybe the projectile would startle the owl to silence. It worked, for the moment. The thieves’ voices remained low, though, and they increased their rowing speed.

Amaranthe kept going too. Running was faster than rowing, so she soon pulled ahead of the boat, but to what end, she was not sure. Before long, she would run out of beach and island, and the thieves would be free to float down the river.